


Nightmares: pleasant dreams, educational terrors and delightful people

by les Amis DCD (AlmostARealHobbit)



Series: of witches, selkies and crows [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Grantaire is a selkie, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, enjolras is a nightmare, he really really is, who make actual efforts to have a happy healthy and lasting relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25067014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD
Summary: "Enjolras was a nightmare in every possible way. Figuratively, he had no qualm whatsoever in bugging anyone who was set in what he judged to be prejudiced and antiquated ways. Literally, Enjolras was one of the mares."Enjolras' life purpose is to create nightmares, but when he has to give some to his loved one, he gets creative.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: of witches, selkies and crows [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815451
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	Nightmares: pleasant dreams, educational terrors and delightful people

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is a sequel to my first fic "Firstborns: unexpected bargains, terrible tradeoffs and surprising gains", and while I recommend reading it first to fully understand this one-shot and its universe, I think this one should be understood easily enough on its own.
> 
> Once again, MASSIVE thanks to [Elia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tendresettroubles/pseuds/tendresettroubles) for letting me shout ideas at her and for always shouting back. 
> 
> And many many thanks to the lovely [cantando-siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre) for beta'ing this fic and always coming up with great suggestions!

Enjolras was a nightmare in every possible way. Figuratively, he had no qualm whatsoever in bugging anyone who was set in what he judged to be prejudiced and antiquated ways. Bugging was undoubtedly too feeble a word; Enjolras would debate for hours, spam with learning resources, shout, torment, argue, intimidate, and, if all else failed, resort to violence. 

He was almost always right, and he was unequivocally a bigot’s nightmare. Literally, Enjolras was one of the mares. His kind tended to be forgotten; after all, they weren’t responsible for _all_ the nightmares of the world. Brains simply worked like that, sometimes. Nevertheless, his species was age-old. When the first creatures to dream were created, so were the mares; from people’s dreams, the mares were born. They roamed the world of the living, but at night, they slipped through the outskirts of consciousness and walked in the darkest realm of sleep. They were no Moirai, but the atrocious, terrifying tales they wove seemed more real and tangible than fate itself ever could. So you see, Enjolras truly _was_ a nightmare.

From the youngest age, Enjolras had decided he would not be like other mares. Nature is such a force that cannot be moved, too visceral to fully be changed, yet that doesn’t mean free will should be overlooked. In the right hands, free will can be buoyant and transformative; in Enjolras’, free will would change the world and play nature at its own game. Enjolras was nature’s nightmare, too.

When they weren’t working, mares had a physical form, one that grew up, then grew old; one that was born and one that died. Enjolras thus wasn’t born as a grown mare, but as a colt, much like many other species. His convictions, however, had sprung like Athena from the myths of old: fully fleshed and bright in righteous fury. He had been a fussy baby, he had been a headstrong child, and he was a relentless adult. He had the capability to be quite insufferable, if he was not usually right and motivated by none other than selflessness and Lady Justice herself.

He knew his kind had a propensity for _terrible_ things. He’d heard of tales, of mares so good at their craft that they had driven people to madness from fear only. He’d experienced it himself, once, as a teen, when he struggled to keep a grip his impulsivity sometimes. He’d been tempted to, one night. Some king, somewhere, had spoken up against basic rights; he’d spewed vitriol, hurtful nonsense against a whole community, and he’d used his absurd position of power to legitimise this sort of speech. Enjolras had seen red; he’d been younger, but he’d never been any less passionate. At night, he’d snuck into that king’s head, and he’d gone to work. The nightmares older mares tended to create were careful, complex and intricate, but those of younger mares were _intense_. And he’d sensed it, while kneeling over the king, working his craft. His nightmare had been unspeakable, horrifying, and he’d felt it, that short second at which someone’s mind can slip through one’s fingers from horror, just like that. For half of that short second, Enjolras had hesitated. He’d released the king and returned to his physical body. He could have had revenge; the king could have paid, anyone who ever crossed Enjolras could, but what would that amount to?

Enjolras believed in conviction, education and self-growth, but he had very little interest for night terrors. He wanted to change the world for the better, not tear it down to the darkness. His powers were what they were, however, and he had come to terms with the fact that he would need to make do and create change with them. And so, along with Les Amis de l’ABC, Enjolras set to better the world of the awake through dreams.

Mares could only ever project images and thoughts that would be unwelcome, uncomfortable, unsettling, and such were the nightmares Enjolras crafted from then on. To anyone who would have shied away from the truth of their world, he showed injustice, he showed people ostracised for no other reason than their species, their origins, their differences. He showed them their own privilege, the pain it caused, how it was built on the oppression of others. He showed them what they would have never willingly faced while awake, and, come morning, he left. It is difficult to identify a regular nightmare compared to one crafted by a mare, and that is usually the point. Enjolras always left a proof of his presence. Behind him, the bleary-eyed sleeper would find leaflets, books, articles and pictures; all references to encourage them to grow.

It was tiring work for Enjolras. The days he spent arguing; the nights he spent convincing. There was no respite for the bigots, and he did not intend to give them any. See, he was a _glorious_ nightmare.

Enjolras could somewhat sustain this rhythm for some time. For several years, it had been some comfort. If he set himself to work as soon as he came home, he would not notice quite how empty it was, how lonely it could get, how the view of the ocean from his bedroom was gone to waste, when the one he loved wouldn’t share it with him —there was very little point mentioning that the object of his affection most likely _was_ in the ocean as Enjolras gazed forward mournfully.

This rhythm had to change, once Grantaire revealed that he returned his feelings in a great, accidental, and very public show of their joint obliviousness. Enjolras simply no longer wanted to spend his nights away, his body lifeless as his mare consciousness took over to visit mind after mind. Not when there was warmth and love to be tucked against, lives and dreams to plan and discuss in breathless whispers against skin well into the late hours of the night. 

Nevertheless, Enjolras was nothing if not a workaholic. He loved Grantaire greatly and might have forsaken his nightly tasks, had he needed to, but he certainly would have missed his routine and purpose. It was thus greatly convenient —or perhaps the Moirai hadn’t wanted to be entirely shown up; _no one_ could ever beat the Fates— that Enjolras had a selkie for a lover. Grantaire simply could not stay away from the ocean for too long, so every other week, he pulled on his pelt, dragged himself into the surf, and disappeared for a few days. He always returned, for the tide always brought him home and he could never stay from Enjolras for too long, but they both welcomed the break. Grantaire returned spirited, like he seldom was, and Enjolras returned to his fight for a couple of nights. Neither could fully understand the other’s needs, but these needs existed well alongside each other, and besides, they loved each other, and those who truly love will always _try_. 

Enjolras, though he had few fears himself, was frightened by the ocean’s depth. The day he returned with a brand new scuba diving diploma thus surprised and delighted Grantaire greatly, which was entirely the point. Together, they went swimming, Grantaire as a seal and Enjolras slick as one in his diving suit. And one night, Grantaire asked:

"I wonder what it’s like.” His rough hands ran over Enjolras’ shoulder in the dark, his crooked, broken nose brushing against the mare’s.

“What is?” Enjolras asked, voice rough and tongue heavy with sleep.

“Your dreams.”

“My nightmares, you mean?” He sounded more awake; he was always proud to talk of his work.

“Yeah. I’d kinda…” Grantaire trailed off. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

“No, tell me,” Enjolras insisted, nuzzling his lover in encouragement. They had a terrible past, as far as communication was concerned. Being open, vulnerable and fully honest was a challenge for the both of them, but then again, they loved each other, and therefore they tried.

“I’d kinda want to see what it’s like, going through one of your dreams,” Grantaire said, voice low enough that it betrayed his shyness.

“My nightmares,” Enjolras corrected, stiffening. “I don’t—”

“I know, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.” The selkie was already retreating into himself; his hand left Enjolras’ shoulder.

“No!” Enjolras grabbed his hand and held it in his own. “It’s not that I don’t want to share this with you,” he explained, “but nightmares aren’t pleasant, that’s kind of the point. I don’t want to be the cause of something unpleasant to you. That’s it, I swear.”

“Oh— ok,” Grantaire said, letting his body naturally fall back against Enjolras’. It was unlikely that the selkie felt the movement of the sea from this bed, from under the covers, yet he had found his body was drawn to the mare’s like the waves to the shore. He would always find him.

Enjolras did not let go of Grantaire’s hand, and eventually, he squeezed back. Together, holding onto one another like a mooring point, they fell asleep.

Months passed, and the two of them kept growing together, as two individuals who chose to walk alongside one another down the path of life. They were happy, and Grantaire, though he showed respectable interest in Enjolras’ occasional nightly activities, didn’t ask anymore about them. Enjolras, however, didn’t forget their conversation, and he thought. 

He studied his own interactions with the recipients of his nightmares, and he pondered on what made him choose them in the first place. It turned out, it was always something he heard them say. If they said “don’t trust these fae thieves,” he would visit them the following night and show them the repercussion their words had on the fae community. If they shuddered while talking of werewolves, he’d hunt them down and have them witness the wealth of werewolf cultures, their ancestral storytelling traditions, their beautiful moon rituals, their dances and fascinating sense of community.

He realised, as he did so, that the nightmares he crafted would hardly be counted as actual nightmares, if the dreamers not dislike the topic. And so, he thought some more.

Until one day, he talked. 

“Love?” he said to Grantaire. He only ever used pet names when they were in private. They didn’t come naturally to him, but he knew Grantaire liked them more than he let on, and they were a very small price to pay to see the content smile that stretched his lover’s mouth. 

Grantaire had just returned from two days in the ocean. He had not yet showered and he smelled of the sea; his skin tasted of salt where Enjolras had his lips pressed against his bare shoulder. Grantaire hummed.

“Yes?”

“Remember when you said you wanted to experience my nightmares?” The toaster chimed, the bread popped up, and Enjolras untangled himself from their embrace to reach for his toast.

“Yes?” Grantaire repeated, though significantly more hesitant, this time.

“I think I may have found a way to give you one,” Enjolras said, quickly lathering butter on the warm bread; he liked to have it melt a little, but he did not have time to bite into it.

“To gif me a ni-mare?” Grantaire asked through a mouthful of the toast he had just nicked from Enjolras.

Enjolras took his breakfast back and scarfed down what was left of it. “Well, yeah, that’s all I can do, but I think I might be able to give you a nice one.”

“A nice nightmare?” Grantaire snorted a laugh, raising an amused eyebrow.

The mare reported his findings seriously, presenting his hypotheses and plans as if this were a meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC. Grantaire nodded along, blessedly quiet —this happened rarely enough that it is worth pointing out— though his fond smile did not leave him —this happened frequently enough around Enjolras that it might not be worth mentioning.

“So I just have to pretend that I don’t like something aloud for you to make it happen? Sounds too easy,” he argued.

“It might be,” Enjolras said. “I think you’ll need to say it with a lot of conviction, convince yourself a little throughout the day.”

“So I have to claim to the world that I hate waffles, grumble about waffles all day long and you might make me dream about a waffle bed?”

“Do you want a waffle bed?” Enjolras chuckled.

“Maybe?”

“Well, we could try with the waffles today, if you want? Seems like a low enough stake.” 

“Fuck waffles, I hate these hole-y bastards,” Grantaire said with an impressive venom in his voice. Enjolras laughed.

That night, when Grantaire fell asleep, Enjolras slipped out of his physical skin, but his mare form didn’t need to roam far —distances had very little importance to mares, as they could walk across a continent in just about three steps; their physicality differed greatly from the human realm. Only scooting over a little, he settled onto Grantaire’s chest with more care than he ever did and with his long, dark fingers, he pressed onto his lover’s temples.

That night, Grantaire dreamt of a bed made of waffles, soft and sweet-smelling, and just warm enough. His pillow was a marshmallow, his blanket chocolate ganache. Every now and then, he took a bite, and by morning, his dream self was rubbing his soft stomach, pleasantly full, a lazy smile on his face.

They did it again, about as often as they went swimming. They were glad to finally be able to share all aspects of their lives, if only a little. With time, they figured out the intensity Grantaire needed to be able to have these sweet nightmares, and his requests gained in variety and complexity over the months which morphed into years.

“I fucking hate Venice. Having a trip there would suck.”

His nightmare was delightful. He and Enjolras walked along the canals, hand in hand. They visited Gallerie dell’Academia, Grantaire talked for hours and hours about Venetian Renaissance sculpture, and they took a boat to see colourful Burano and artful Murano. Grantaire woke up hungry for pasta, but not quite enough to make him leave the bed and lose his loving hold onto Enjolras.

“Having a house on the outskirts of town and right by the seaside would be _awful_ . Can you imagine getting to walk along the beach with like, a dog running, being able to picnic on the sand any time we’d want? Urgh, me neither. _Awful_.”

The dream basked in warm light. Their house was small, but just big enough for the two of them. They had an old rescue dog they took to run on the sand and play in the surf. Grantaire spent his idle hours of the day in and out of his pelt, staying naked so as to gain time and turn Enjolras’ head more easily. They made their house a home together and invited Les Amis over; it was anything but awful.

Shortly after that night, they both terminated their own apartment leases —Grantaire had all but been living with Enjolras for the last two years, anyway— and bought a house together by the seaside outside of town. It was a little run down, but it was perfect. They went on walks on the beach, they made it home, their friends lit it up with life, they cooked and danced —beautifully, in Grantaire’s case, hopelessly in Enjolras’— and fought and made up and talked and loved. They didn’t get the dog, but only because Enjolras was allergic.

“Meeting Leonardo Da Vinci? Pfff, who would want to meet that fossil? I bet he wasn’t even that cool.” Grantaire squealed in excitement when he woke up, even if it was only a dream.

“Sex marathon? Sounds terrible. Only Courfeyrac would do something so dumb.” Enjolras happily complied. They tried that awake a week later.

“Finally some fucking peace and quiet? Who needs that shit?” Enjolras held him through the night, in his body and in his dream. He let Grantaire cry the tears he needed to shed and whispered words of reassurance and love in his hair.

One afternoon, Grantaire said, with much less vigour and a great deal more shyness than he’d learnt to use on the occasions he wanted to experience one of Enjolras’ nightmares: “Us, old and grey husbands, with the whole feeding ducks at the park shit? So cliché, sounds pretty boring.” Under the guise of a cynic, Grantaire was actually quite the romantic. These things weren’t natural or innate for Enjolras, but, prompted by Grantaire, he enjoyed them himself; he smiled.

That night, Grantaire didn’t dream. Or rather, he did. He dreamt he was a seal and encountered a pirate ship. Jack Sparrow was on it, and so were Joly and Cosette’s father, they invited him to eat a burger on the ship, which was now the well-loved Corinthe bar. His dream was that: a dream. It was illogical and held none of the warmth of Enjolras’ carefully crafted nightmares; there was no old and grey Enjolras and Grantaire, no wedding ring on their left hands, no duck, no walk, no hand-holding. 

That morning, Enjolras’ side of the bed was cold; he was long gone. Grantaire might have panicked or even wept if it weren’t for the note on his pillow: ‘Got called by Combeferre. Loads to do for the rally this weekend. Be back tonight. Love you, -E’. 

Grantaire sighed pitifully, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. He had always been prone to self-loathing, and he knew he would spend the coming hours, days, weeks, licking his wound, assuming Enjolras might not want something like marriage with him.

Had Enjolras been there that day, he would have witnessed Grantaire’s dejected demeanour all morning. He would have seen how the selkie dragged his feet around their house aimlessly, how even the sight of his pelt or the scent of the ocean didn’t stir his enthusiasm. He might have followed him to Jehan’s and Bahorel’s and heard how he didn’t even try to throw a barb back at Russell when he greeted him with a friendly “well, don’t you look like a sad bastard”, how the crow didn’t even prod any more. But Enjolras wasn’t with Grantaire, which really was the crux of the problem, and therefore missed all these little things, and Enjolras? Well, Enjolras wasn’t with Combeferre either.

Grantaire lingered as long as possible at his friends’ cottage, but eventually, he returned to the house he shared with Enjolras, to their terrace and the swing he’d bought the summer prior, to the beach he thought of as theirs and the ocean he knew belonged to no one. 

The sun had already set, but he was surprised to find Enjolras already home; it was nigh impossible to get him off of his work when he was started, especially if he was with Combeferre. 

The table was set; it smelled delicious, which could only mean he had gotten some takeaway, likely from the Italian place Grantaire loved. Enjolras greeted him with a warm, lingering kiss to his lips, smirking when he noticed the selkie’s small shudder of pleasure.

“Hey there. Had a good day?”

Grantaire shrugged. He seemed wary; his ego was undoubtedly more than a little bruised. “You got dinner?” he asked instead.

Enjolras frowned for a moment before gesturing towards the table. “Yeah! I thought it’d been a while. Sit?”

Grantaire followed stiffly, and had Enjolras not been positively fidgety himself, he might have noticed how Grantaire’s countenance tightened up, how it screamed of a visceral need to grab his pelt, run and _leave_. Enjolras missed it, but he turned on his feet with a sudden jolt before reaching the table.

“Actually, I’m gonna do this now. I wanted to do it after dinner, but you know me, I’m not the most patient,” he said, decidedly less confident than he usually sounded. Enjolras was _good_ at speaking, at choosing the right words. He only ever stumbled when it was personal. “You asked me yesterday for a nightmare, us older and married, remember?”

Grantaire huffed. “Uh, yeah, I do.”

“Well, I don’t want to give you this nightmare, because it’s not one. And I don’t want to give you this dream.” Grantaire’s face, which hadn’t been all too cheerful to begin with, fell. Enjolras pressed on: “I don’t want to give them to you, because I don’t think that would be enough.” Quickly, he reached behind himself to pull something from his back pocket —he never kept anything in his back pocket, for he always forgot about it and inevitably sat on its contents— and his finger ran over the unfamiliar shape of a little square box. “I still want to see what we’ll look like, old, grey, and married, though. Think you’d want that, too?” he asked, voice a little shaky, opening the box and thrusting it forward.

Grantaire laughed. His expression had changed entirely, it was now open and bright, lit up by a smile that reached all the way to his eyes, wrinkled in pleasure and shiny with unshed tears. “That’s your proposal? You’re not gonna ask the actual question?”

Enjolras shrugged sheepishly. “Is that gonna change your answer?”

Grantaire barked another joyful laugh, exhaling all the doubt and tension that had built up since the morning. He didn’t look at the ring, and Enjolras idly thought that he might have not needed to nervously search town all day long for the perfect one, not when Grantaire’s eyes couldn’t seem to leave Enjolras face, alight with happy disbelief, ring long forgotten. Grantaire reached forward to wrap his strong arms around Enjolras’ waist and press his face against his lover’s shoulder. With a voice that held no heat, nothing but absolute fondness and relief, he said: “You’re a _nightmare_ , Enjolras.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, mares actually are creatures of Germanic and Slavic folklore. I know extremely little about them and mostly took great liberties with the whole concept to fit my story. I just thought the idea of Enjolras being a nightmare was really funny and I ran with it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Actual Nightmares: bad movies, snuggling and lying seals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25380427) by [magicpiano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicpiano/pseuds/magicpiano)
  * [Sealskin: why you shouldn't eat strange ocean plants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25587826) by [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet/pseuds/LuckyBossuet)




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